Catching Claire (6 page)

“Someone’s stealing my underwear! I need to find out
who!”

Arching an eyebrow at the indignant female voice,
Detective Derek McAllister raised his gaze from his computer
screen.
Hello
. A slim blonde in a slinky red dress stood on
the other side of his desk in Rosewood’s police station. Sparks
radiated from the woman’s blue eyes as she dangled a scarlet
G-string inches from his nose. Her hand jerked. The scrap of silk
flipped off her fingertip, bonking his Mariners coffee mug and
plopping onto his notebook.

Derek glanced at the front counter. Both Biggs, the
balding desk sergeant, and Harding, a lanky patrol officer who
shadowed Biggs like a starved-for-attention sidekick, looked back
at Derek and chortled. Biggs twirled a finger near one cauliflower
ear, mouthing, “Craaazy.”

Like Derek needed Biggs to tell him.
Thanks a lot, boneheads.
Sending me the kook, huh?

Both uniforms were working the night shift. Although
Derek had reported a slow afternoon, there was still plenty to do
before the bars closed and mid-July crap hit the fan. For instance,
Harding. Instead of chuckling over the Funnies, the dope could be
checking parks and alleys. And Biggs…rather than playing Sudoku and
flirting with the female clerk, the guy could at least check
email.

“Well?”
The blonde at Derek’s desk stared him down.
“Are you going to shuffle me off like they did—” she flicked a hand
toward Biggs and Harding “—or take me seriously?” Her golden hair
shimmered beneath the bright lights in feathery layers.

Hell, why not?
Elbows on his desk, Derek hunched
forward in his swivel chair. Taking initial theft reports wasn’t
his responsibility. His job was to investigate. However, he sensed
frazzled nerves beneath the woman’s righteous ire. And, considering
the nature of her complaint…

He wanted to get a good sense of the problem and who
she was so he wouldn’t need to do a second interview later. If
kook-job poured off her in bucketfuls, he’d rather pacify her and
escort her safely home than subject her to potential ridicule by
directing her back to the guys up front. Sending her away to roam
the Seattle suburb in her current state of agitation was out of the
question.

Derek calmly eyed the G-string. He slipped a pen
beneath a lacy strap and lifted the lingerie as carefully as if he
were handling a piece of forensic evidence.

“Is this the underwear in question, ma’am?” he
asked.

Her chin tipped up. “I’m a
Miss
. Miss DeMarco.” Her blue gaze
darted away a moment. “No, that’s not the underwear I’m talking
about. That underwear isn’t missing. Is it, Detective?”

That
depends on whether you’re wearing any
. Derek stifled the
urge to lean across the desk and check the presence or absence of
panty lines beneath her luscious red dress.

“All right, then. What underwear of yours
is
missing?”
A question he certainly hadn’t anticipated asking upon his return
to the station. On a seedy street corner, maybe.

“My lingerie designs. The prototype samples.” The
blonde snatched back the G-string. “This thong is a prototype, too,
but thankfully the thief didn’t nab it.”

“Are you sure it was a thief?” Derek still had panty
lines on the brain.

“Yes, Detective McAllister,” Miss DeMarco said with
strained patience. “You
are
Detective Derek McAllister, right? That’s the
name she—I mean, the men at the counter gave me.”

Derek arrowed a glance to the desk. Biggs, looking
back again, rolled his eyes. Harding scratched his stomach and
snickered.

“They would be right.” Derek tapped the cheap brass
nameplate beside his computer. Miss DeMarco’s nervous gaze tracked
the movement.

Her shoulders squared. “Well, Detective McAllister,
usually when there’s a burglary, there’s a thief involved. Wouldn’t
you say?”

“Yep. Usually, I would.” Unless she’d imagined the
whole thing. Anxiety hopped off her slender curves like ants
attacking a sugar bowl. Maybe she was paranoid.
What a shame
.

She hoisted a gigantic shopping bag off the floor.
Derek’s lips tugged into a smile as she plunked the bag onto his
desk, dug inside, and pulled out a skimpy lingerie top. She tossed
the G-string—pardon him,
thong
—and pink lingerie onto the desk, then rummaged
through the bag again.

“Damn it, I wanted to make sure he—I’m pretty sure
the thief is a he—didn’t steal more samples, so I grabbed as many
as possible before catching the bus over.” Out flew blue underwear
and a yellow slip thing. “Trouble is, these prototypes take up so
much room I’m having trouble finding my wallet.” The shopping bag
coughed up a purple bra and some flimsy, pale green panties.

Derek put down his pen. “Don’t worry about the
wallet.” Did she think she had to pay him?

“I see it!” She continued emptying the bag until an
explosion of frothy colors littered his desk, reminding him of his
twin sister Janie’s rooftop garden after her ex-boyfriend broke her
heart and she’d weed-whacked every blossom formerly planted in
honor of their love.

It occurred to him Janie would like Miss DeMarco. He
could visualize the two of them whacking blossoms together.

“Ah ha!” The blonde produced a slim wallet. A cell
phone clattered out of the bag, bouncing across the lingerie and
clunking his jar of pens. Amid the chaos, she opened the wallet,
withdrew a business card, and handed it to him.

A flowery script on creamy stock announced:
Lacey’s Little
Underthings. Lacey DeMarco, President and Head Designer
.

“Lacey?” Derek muttered. “Give me a break.”
Yeah, she’s a
wing-nut
.

A blush stained her face. “That’s right, Lacey
DeMarco. My mother, Cather—uh, Christina DeMarco, is the famous
lingerie designer out of Milan. My sister is Silken and my brother
is Teddy. My mother believes in theme names.”

“Does she now?” Placing aside the card, Derek
pressed down another smile. He’d never heard of Christina DeMarco.
Or Cather-uh DeMarco. “Look, I need to understand the situation. If
someone’s stealing your underwear, what’s all this?” He sifted his
fingers through the pile.

She gazed at the heap. “This is...what’s left. What
I’ve rescued.”

“Mm-hm. From the culprit, you mean?”

“Yes.” Her voice rose. “This hasn’t been stolen.
Yet.” She stuffed the cell phone and lingerie back into the
bag.

Derek picked up the green panties and studied the
inside label.
Well,
lookee here
. The hand-stitched label read
Lacey’s Little Underthings
,
like her business card.

Maybe his sexy wing-nut was on the up-and-up.

“Okay.” He tossed her the panties, which she caught
with surprising deftness. “Please sit.” He indicated the chair in
front of his desk. On his computer, he saved the grid he’d drafted
showing a week of vehicle thefts. “Tell me what happened,” he said
as he logged out of the computer and reached for his notepad.

She remained standing. “I’d rather tell you on the
way over.” She shoved the wadded panties into the bag.

“The way over where?”

“My place.”

“Your
place?”

“My design studio—it’s in my apartment. That’s where
the theft occurred. Don’t you want to inspect the scene of the
crime?”

“I’d rather take notes first.”

Her eyebrows high-jumped. “I don’t have time! I
never know when he might strike again. He’s already plundered me
twice!”

Derek chuckled. “The panty thief?”

“The
corporate
panty raider,” Lacey returned in an uppity
tone he swore she employed to disguise her obvious jitters.
Because, if her dress was anything to go by, she didn’t look the
uppity type.

“Lacey’s Little Underthings is a legitimate company,
Detective McAllister. I’ve produced my business card. I demand your
respect.”

Derek tapped the pad against his palm. Finishing the
vehicle theft grid could wait. While he didn’t buy into Lacey’s
business-card definition of respect, she deserved his attention and
protection as much as any other Rosewood citizen. Even if he wasn’t
technically on-duty.

“Just a minute,” he told her. He got up and strode
to the counter. “Harding. I need a ride-along. You available?”

“Sorry.” The guy plunked on his hat. “Just got a
call.”

Biggs backed away, hands raised. “I need to write a
report.”

Derek nodded.
Typical
.

He glanced back at Lacey. She stood at his desk,
clenching the shopping bag and nibbling her lip.

He drew in a breath. Okay, then. He’d poke around
her design studio, call in the crime scene techs if necessary.
Volunteer an hour of his time toward her peace of mind, tops.

He motioned her over. “Not to worry, Miss DeMarco.
I’d be happy to take a look.”

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